


What Happens After a Nightmare

by spacesex4651



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cold, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pain, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Repressed Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 23:48:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20844056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacesex4651/pseuds/spacesex4651
Summary: Ciel Phantomhive has a nightmare, but somewhere in that darkness, that everlasting darkness for which he can never escape, his demon is there, waiting on him to rise.-------BIG hurt/comfort.-------Sebastian is there when Ciel has a nightmare.





	What Happens After a Nightmare

It was dark. It was damp. There wasn’t a thing in sight, the poor thing, as the blackness enveloped the world around him. He registered the cold on the backs of his thighs and the roundness that was his behind, maybe he felt it on the tips of his fingers too. It was cold. 

It was dark, it was damp, and it was cold. To the left of him there was breathing, soft, somewhat uneven, but far too shallow to be his own, as he attempted to calm himself. But it was dark and it was damp and it was cold; far too much of anything to be calm about. 

A light shone through the bars residing before his eyes. The strip that illuminated him, directly him and yet no other, was nearly blinding after being in the dark for so long. The light he longed for, for which he assumed he would appreciate, resided none of those feelings; those longings and those desires, that he had hoped. Instead, with the light came fear. 

It was dark, it was damp, it was cold, all but for that strip of illumination, a strip that sent fear into the depths of his soul so deep, in fact, he could feel it. Footsteps came. Heavy and deep, echoing off the dark, cold walls with a heaviness that resembled the feeling deep within him. Was this what they called a ‘gut feeling’? 

The bars in front of him gave way, another thing he had been fantasizing about for weeks yet now it was different. He debated, backing away or giving into to the frozen stance he so desperately wanted to keep, when instinct betrays you and you’re left with nothing but a few stray tears. 

The tears were warm. He wanted warmth, wanted to be wrapped up in a soft mound of blankets, heated by a fireplace as the waves prickled and sunk into his skin. But this heat, unlike the heat he craved, rolled carefully down his cheeks, leaving streaks for the light to glimmer on; a mirror in a dark room. Oh, how he wished those bars would close. 

More footsteps came. His instincts won over. The boy was frozen to the freezing ground, nothing more than the silent salt dripping down onto his fingertips left to be felt. That is, of course, besides the fear. He shook with it, softly but surely, as his eyes widened to replicate the dinner plates he was once fed on. 

Cold, unrelenting vines wrapped around his forearm, gripping hard enough to bring a pulse to the tender skin, proof that he was alive. They tugged, pulling him out of the confinement of the rusty metal bars and upwards so he may stand on those pitifully weak legs. Oh how he wished he couldn’t stand. 

The coldness had now taken up his entire front, skin bare and open to the chill of the room as his face pressed into the stone. Laying down, he was no longer worried of falling, but rather the vulnerability of it all. More vines, like the ones before, with footsteps just as deep and heavy and breathing just as loud, wrapped around his arms and legs, pulling and gripping, holding him there, vulnerable and open and bare. There were voices, of which he could not register, and momentarily he wondered if they were even in a language he could decipher, but nevertheless they were there. 

He missed hearing voices, the way they radiated from one orifice to another with such ease, such nature of his being. Now they did nothing more than add to the heaviness within his core, a reminder that he should not, could not, relax. Not when he was so open, so vulnerable, so bare, and so frightened. As he focused on the traveling tones, louder as they continued, he recognized his name. Ciel Phantomhive, was that his name? Of course it was, he knew, however, it was much easier to pretend it wasn’t in this state. Nameless, blank, much like the expanse of his back as it was barred to the men in capes. 

Sizzling, was it his flesh? Surely, the pain, the burning, the marred skin just below the finishing of his ribs, indicated that the crackling, the popping, the searing was, as was the loud scream that reverberated so beautifully off the walls, his. It all belonged to him; Ciel Phantomhive. More heat, now pooling below his soft, sticky cheeks, onto the stone he was pressed so harshly against, reminded him, he was alive. He didn’t want to be alive, at least not here, as he decided the emptiness, the cold, the darkness with the soft breathing to his left, was, in fact, preferred. 

Something touched him, another vine, as it slid between the cheeks lower down on his pale skin. He writhed and squirmed, fighting with all the energy left in those god-forsaken muscles to get away. He failed. Just as he felt he was being torn, split in two where no matter the light that came through those doors, it would never shine, something brighter, clearer, and much safer than his surroundings echoed throughout his dream. A dream? Was this all just a dream?   
But it was far too real, far too painful, as when he woke he could still feel the burning below his ribs. A memory. 

“Ciel.” There it was again. His name. The name he no longer felt he wanted after it was uttered by those vines, in that dark, damp, garden he never wanted to return to. 

“Ciel.” Stop reminding him! Not now, after such a horrid memory had managed to claw its way out of the pink flesh that was his mind. But the voice, so much softer, kinder, worrisome, and careful than the voices that echoed before, was welcomed. This must have been a dream. A memory and a dream. 

“Sebastian.” It was his own voice, he was sure of it, however broken by labored breaths and cracks that only came with the salty, warm streaks that flowed down his face. He swore his lips weren’t moving, at least not by his own accord; no they were frozen, pressed against the cold stone that pools of water had collected on, but alas he was speaking, and therefore those lips were moving. His lips. 

“Young master, wake up.” There it was again, that voice. It pulled him, much like the vines that had before and yet much softer, more required, soothing almost as they continued to tug him. Away from that nightmarish dream. A nightmare. He was having a nightmare. 

Warmth enveloped his shoulders, the tops and the fronts of them. It was impossible. They were cold, pressed to the stone of the table beneath him, where his blood had seeped upwards and covered them. Since when had there been blood? 

“Wake up.” The voice repeated. Calm, soothing, pulling. The voice brought a smell with it, something that reminded him of home, of the bed he once laid in as his parents, Ciel’s parents, had sang him to sleep in. Was he home? 

As if the dream had crumbled like the ground below him it broke, shattered into a million, dark shards as his eyes shot open, still wide like the dinner plates he ate on. His breathing, now belonging to him, was sharp and painful, though not the same pain he had felt when the air was cold. Now the air was warmer, filled with that smell, home, and something else, Sebastian. Sebastian, he was here. Why was he here? 

“Sebastian?” He called, and though the question was intended to be posed as calm, innocent like the nights he had spent wandering the garden long after he was told to sleep, it wasn’t so. It was a scream, an order, something he had not authorized and yet, there it was, in all its deep and bare vulnerability. Humiliating. The tingling and buzzing that came with it all settled just underneath his skin, prickling like the pain he felt before and yet oh so differently. This was a different pain. Weakness, to which he wasn’t fond. It didn’t belong to him, his name, Ciel Phantomhive, but there it was, intangible and real. 

“Save me.” Another cry, gone unchecked and therefore unwanted, however something that must have been spoken. An order from his soul, his own soul, betraying him, how could it? His mind, muddled from the thick clouds of terrorized sleep, almost didn’t comprehend the warmth surrounding him. It brushed over his back and settled there, as he realized it was no longer bare, open skin, left to the cold air of the dark and ill mannered room. There was something soft beneath him, a bed perhaps, that had kept his weight from falling through onto the floor. Not a table filled with blood and tears and the remnants of cooked skin, but a bed. 

“I am here, Ciel. You have already been saved.” But that was the question, had he been saved? What was, the definition, of the word saved? He was sure that the pain, the uncontrollable pain that came with breathing and blinking and living itself was not, in fact, lying within the definition of saved. 

“Help.” Another cry, humiliating, pitiful, weak in nature and yet it belonged to him; Ciel Phantomhive. He wished to be faceless, nameless, bare and nothing once again in this moment. But it was too late for that now, he had lost his chance, and as he lost that he lost more. His grip on the night, what he had endured, was slipping away, as the sharp edges he had gripped so firmly til blood spilled from his palms and sunk under his fingernails, was falling. 

“I’m here.” The voice, that voice that had saved him, but not really, returned. He gripped at it much like he had gripped at the dream, though now there was no blood. Only tears, his tears, and sharp breaths he still could not grasp. 

“You.” He whispered, turning around on what was, in fact, a bed, to face the warm glowing red of a demon’s gaze. How pitiful, humiliating, weak it truly was, to find solace in those pools of hellfire. Fire. The mark. It was burning. The boy clutched at his eye, his eye with the mark, his mark, not Ciel’s, was burning. 

“You were calling me in your sleep, young master, and it seems you’re in quite a panic. I must insist that you calm down.” The voice was deep, much deeper than the voices that came from the vines, the vines that grabbed him tore him, nearly in two - he wanted to forget. 

“Sebastian.” The voice was smaller, softer this time, also not something that belonged to him, Ciel Phantomhive. 

“Yes, my lord?” A response, clear and cutting, never too cold and always there when needed, except when he needed it most. 

“Make me forget.” The phrase, the command, the order, if you will, was dwindling on the end of his tongue. That feeling, the one deep inside his soul that still hadn’t vanished despite the dream, the nightmare, dissipating around him, told him it was no longer needed. The demon would do what he could to help the boy, and Ciel Phantomhive was well aware of this. 

“Yes, my lord.” The same response, clear and cutting, never too cold and always there when needed, even when the request was so lewd. 

The warmth enveloped his lips first. Even in the darkness of the night, though not the same darkness as before, he realized the warmth came from another pair. It travelled to his roots, right at the top of his head, where the tingling returned though pleasant this time, belonged to fingers now. They carded through his soft blue locks, ever loving and tender despite their holder; one who could afford none of those luxuries, if they could even be referred to as such. Another kiss, yes it was a kiss, was placed onto his lips, soft and gentle and full of things he could not yet quite understand was there. 

A hand stroking his head and lips upon his own. Sebastian was lying next to him, and Ciel Phantomhive, for that was his name, shuffled closer to the waves of heat that radiated from the falsified form. It wasn’t real, he recognized, and his breathing spiked once more and the tears came back, humiliating, weak, pitiful, just as he had been trying to avoid. 

“What is wrong, young master?” The demon questioned, his eyes beginning to burn like the fire he was born from once more. Worried. Could a demon really be worried? Ciel didn’t have time, nor energy, to question such frivolous things, not when the panic he had just escaped had caught back up in the never ending chase. 

“I want you to show your true form.” Again, it wasn’t an order, even as the syllables danced on the tip of his muscle. No response was given now as a deep black smoke poured from the body he had squished himself against. But the darkness was different now, thicker and blacker than he had ever witnessed before, as long, sharp claws, ever capable of ripping him apart the way he had just remembered wrapped themselves softly against his spine. A tail, long and rough like the sand on a beach had rested gently against his bare legs, the legs he was no longer afraid to have bare. 

Equal ground. Both vulnerable, and open as to what they truly were. A man and a demon, or rather a boy and a beast, had both given up their facades. Broken and unfeeling, the both of them at the realization, that this was frowned upon. Vulnerable, pitiful, and weak the both of them were, but wrapped up under the covers of his four poster bed, not a cold stone table with blood and tears and spit and marred flesh, they felt strong. And though it may be a mirage, and the possibility of it all becoming lies, as the facade could shatter like the mirror his dreams were now, when they whispered ‘I love you’ in the darkness of the night and the monster’s true form, it was all very real.


End file.
